Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (127 page)

It seemed pointless to pursue the matter, or Ramses. Silently I turned back to the labours Emerson’s affectionate demonstration had interrupted. As is occasionally his habit, Emerson turned his annoyance at the disturbance, not on the perpetrator, but on the nearest object – me.

‘It has taken you a devil of a time to unpack,’ he grumbled.

‘If you had condescended to stay and help, I would be done.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so? That is just like a woman. They always expect a fellow to read their minds–’

‘The most rudimentary intelligence would have made it evident–’

‘And then they whine and complain when–’

‘Whine, indeed! When have you ever heard me–’

‘I admit the word is inappropriate. Shout would be more–’

‘How can you–’

‘How can
you
–’

We were both out of breath by then and had to pause to take in oxygen. Then Emerson said cheerfully, ‘You were quite right, Peabody; this parcel is one I remember and it does indeed contain a new teakettle, which I purchased in the sûk. I seemed to recall that the kettle of last season had become sadly dented after I used it to kill a cobra.’

‘It was clever of you to think of it, Emerson. I confess that the incident of the cobra had quite slipped my mind. What is in this last parcel?’

‘I have no idea. Perhaps it contains some of the things we left Abdullah to pack and bring here from Mazghunah.’

He had taken out his pocket knife and was cutting the cords binding the parcel that contained the kettle. The merchants in the bazaar knew only two styles of packing – one used no string at all, so that the parcel fell apart in transit; the other employed vast quantities of heavy rope even when the parcel was only to be carried a few yards. The package I was inspecting was of the second variety, and I had to borrow Emerson’s knife to undo it.

He unpacked the kettle and some pots and pans, and turned to put them on the table.

‘Emerson,’ I said. ‘Look here.’

In a flash Emerson was at my side. He knows every tone of my voice, and on this occasion the few simple words quivered with the intensity of the inexpressible sensations that filled me.

‘What is it, Peabody?’ He looked into the box. I had pushed aside the top layer of straw. The curved sides of the vessel within gleamed in the lamplight with a soft luster.

Emerson reached for it. With a shriek I caught his arm and clung to it. ‘No, Emerson! Watch out!’

‘What the devil, Peabody, it is only an old pot. A pot made of …’ His breath caught. ‘Silver?’

‘It is not the vessel itself I fear, but what may be concealed in the straw. A scorpion, a snake, a poisonous spider … Where are your gloves – the heavy work gloves?’

For a wonder they were where they were supposed to be, in the pocket of his coat. When I started to draw on the gloves, he took them from me, and performed the task himself. I was in a perfect quiver of apprehension until he had removed the last of the objects from the container. He then overturned it, spilling the packing material onto the floor.

‘No spiders, no snakes,’ he remarked, shoving the straw about with his booted toe. ‘Obviously you are in possession of information I lack, Peabody. Would you care to explain why you expected a shipment of venomous animals, and how you came into possession of what appear to be antique vessels of … antique vessels … No. No! I don’t believe it. Don’t tell me–’

‘Obviously I needn’t tell you,’ I replied. Normally I am tolerant of Emerson’s little fits of temper, for they relieve an excess of spleen; but this situation was too serious for theatrics. A sense, not of fear but of awe, as in the presence of something larger and more powerful than myself, stole over me. ‘These are indeed the communion vessels stolen from the church of Sitt Miriam at Dronkeh. Stolen by that villain, that wretch, that consummate master of evil, that genius of crime …’

I waited for him to voice an objection to the words he knew I was about to use, but he was incapable of speech. Flushed of countenance, bulging as to his eyeballs, he continued to stare at me in silence, and I concluded, ‘None other than – the Master Criminal!’

E
MERSON
had never seen the famous communion vessels, since he has a constitutional aversion to organized religion and refuses to enter a church, mosque, or synagogue. He had to take my word for it, but even if he had presumed to doubt my identification, the conclusion would have been forced upon him. The vessels taken from the church at Dronkeh had been valuable antiques, centuries old. There could not be many such sets of objects hanging about, as Emerson glumly and vulgarly expressed it.

‘But why return them?’ he demanded. Then his expression lightened. ‘Wait – wait, Peabody, I have it. The thief was not your cursed Master Criminal, but an amateur who yielded to a sudden temptation, hoping the theft would be blamed on the Master Criminal. He has repented, and has returned them.’

‘To us? Were that the case, Emerson, the repentant thief would have returned the objects to the church. It is a challenge from our old adversary, Emerson; it can be nothing else.’

‘Peabody, I thoroughly dislike your trick of selecting one theory out of a plethora of them and loudly proclaiming it to be the only possible solution. My explanation makes as much sense as yours.’

Upon further discussion, Emerson was forced to agree that the parcel must have been among those brought with us from Cairo. Its neat style of wrapping would have stood out like a sore thumb in the things Abdullah had caused to be transported from Mazghunah, for Abdullah’s notion of packing was to throw everything into a sack and toss it over the back of a donkey.

We further agreed that it would be the simplest thing in the world for someone to slip the parcel in among the others Emerson had ordered from the bazaar. One of the hotel safragi’s duties was to take deliveries and place them in our room, and there was no reason why he would have taken special notice of any particular parcel.

‘Quite true,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘And yet, Emerson, I have a strange feeling about that parcel. I cannot tell you how I know, but I am convinced that the Master Criminal delivered it himself. That we were under observation all that day; that our departure from the hotel was noted; that had we been present, we would have seen a man stroll calmly along the corridor, parcel in hand, eluding the safragi – who is, as you know, sound asleep most of the time – entering our room, placing his parcel among the others – pausing to gloat over our discomfiture and our bewilderment …’

‘Your intuition tells you so, I presume,’ said Emerson, with a halfhearted sneer.

‘Something other than intuition. What it is I cannot say … Ah, I have it!’ I snatched up the discarded wrappings and turned them over in my hand. Yes, there it was; I had not imagined it – a spot of what appeared to be grease or fat, as large as the palm of my hand. I raised it to my nostrils and sniffed. ‘I knew it!’ I cried in triumph. ‘Here, Emerson, smell for yourself.’

Emerson shied back as I held the paper to his face. ‘Good Gad, Amelia –’

‘Smell it. Just there, the spot of grease. Well?’

‘Well, it is animal fat of some kind,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘Mutton or chicken. What is so significant about that? These people are not given to the use of knives and forks, they eat with their fingers and …’ Then his face changed, and I knew that his intelligence, equal to my own, had arrived at the same conclusion. I also knew he was too stubborn to admit it.

‘Chicken fat,’ I said. ‘No wonder the cat Bastet refused the meat Ramses brought from Mena House. She had been stuffed with chicken. Emerson, that villain – that remarkable, clever wretch – has seduced our cat!’

Emerson did not dispute my deduction. He ridiculed it, he derided it, he scoffed at it. He kept this up even after we had retired. Our mattresses had been placed side by side atop the roof. The cool breeze, the soft moonlight, the exquisite but indescribable scent of the desert – even the smell of donkey droppings, wafting from the courtyard below – should have induced a state of mind conducive to connubial affection of the strongest kind; and yet, for almost the first time in our marriage, Emerson’s demonstrations were inadequate to the purpose. He was ridiculously upset about it.

‘I keep expecting to see Ramses’ head pop up over the edge of the screen,’ he groaned. ‘I cannot concentrate, Amelia. Tomorrow night we will move to the pit. Ramses will be perfectly safe here with Nemo in the next room and our men guarding the compound.’

‘Much as I would enjoy sleeping in the spot you describe, Emerson, I don’t think it would be wise. Not after the reminder we have just received of the awesome malice and powers of the Master Criminal. We have scarcely been in Egypt three days, and already he has challenged us twice. We are in deep waters, Emerson, very deep indeed. Was the attempt on Ramses meant to succeed, or was it only a demonstration of what the man can do if he chooses? One result of that adventure, if you recall, was the advent of Mr Nemo in our midst.’

Midway in this speech Emerson had pulled the blanket over his head and was pretending to snore. I knew I still had his attention, however, for the part of his body that adjoined my own was as rigid as a board.

‘Was that perhaps the Master Criminal’s intent?’ I went on thoughtfully. ‘To insert a confederate into our confidence? And the return of the communion vessels is another enigma. Why should he give up his loot? I tell you, Emerson, the subtle machinations of that great criminal brain–’

Emerson sat up with a roar whose reverberations echoed through the quiet night. As if in answer came the queer, coughing cry of a jackal prowling the desert waste.

‘Hush, Emerson,’ I implored. ‘You will waken the entire village – not to mention Ramses. What the devil is the matter with you? I was speaking of the Master Criminal–’

‘I heard you,’ Emerson lowered his voice. The blanket had fallen away, baring his body to the waist and exposing more of my own than was strictly proper. Mesmerized by the ripple of muscle on Emerson’s broad chest as he struggled for breath, I did not replace it. Emerson went on in a hissing whisper, ‘Great mind, did you say? How can you ramble on about that – that – that creature at a time like this? And in such terms – terms almost of respect! Devil take it, Amelia, one might suppose you think I am incapable of dealing with that scoundrel! Curse it! If you believe I am not man enough–’

‘My dear Emerson–’

‘Be quiet, Peabody. If you have any doubts as to my fortitude, I will prove you wrong.’

And he did so, with such determination and zeal that when, at a later time, he requested my assessment of the situation, I was able to reply with utter sincerity that his arguments had been entirely convincing.

I woke at dawn, as is my habit in Egypt, whatever distractions the night may bring. Our lofty perch presented me with an unexampled view of the glorious sunrise and I lay in sleepy content for a time, watching the soft shades of gold and rose strengthen in the eastern sky. Emerson’s regular expiration ruffled the hair on my brow. After a time a sense of vague uneasiness penetrated the pleasant laziness of my mind, and I raised my head. Fortunately I raised no other part of my body, for the first thing I saw was the face of Ramses, apparently detached from the rest of him, solemnly regarding me. It was an uncanny apparition and I was somewhat startled until it occurred to me that everything except his head was out of sight on the stairs leading to the roof.

‘What are you doing there?’ I whispered.

‘I came to see if you and Papa were awake. Since I see that you are, I have brought you a cup of tea. I tried to bring two cups, but unfortunately dropped one, the stairs being extremely steep and my–’

I put my finger to my lips and pointed at Emerson, who was twitching restlessly.

Ramses’ neck and narrow shoulders rose up out of the stairwell, and I saw that he was indeed holding a cup. Whether or not it contained tea was yet to be seen. I rather doubted that it did. I started to sit up and then remembered that in the extreme fatigue following the ultimate conclusion of my discussion with Emerson, I had neglected something.

I dismissed Ramses and groped for my clothes. Assuming those garments under cover of the blanket without rousing Emerson was no easy task. By the time I was finished I quite agreed with my husband that we might do well to transfer our sleeping quarters to the place he had suggested. Ramses was even more unnerving when he was not present than when he was, because one never knew when he would turn up.

There was approximately an eighth of a cup of tea in the bottom of the cup. The rest had been spilled on the steps, as I discovered when I started to descend them.

However, it had been a kindly thought, and I thanked Ramses when I found him busily burning toast over the camp stove. ‘Where is Mr Nemo?’ I asked.

‘Outside. I offered to prepare a light repast for him, but he said he didn’t want any cursed tea and toast, and–’

I went out the door, leaving Ramses still talking. Nemo was squatting on the mastaba bench. He had resumed his filthy turban and once again resembled an Egyptian of the lowest type. I never could have mistaken him for one of our men, for they prided themselves on the elegance of their attire, and their habits were as fastidious as circumstances allowed. They had finished their morning repast and there was a busy flutter of blue-and-white-striped cotton round the cookfire. Abdullah, looking like one of the nobler Biblical patriarchs in the snowy white he preferred, called a greeting and I replied in kind, adding that Emerson would soon be ready to leave for the site.